


everything and beyond

by onebatch2batch



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Feelings Realization, Just....fluff, Karen get jumped, Stays with Frank for safety, aka my favorite trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 10:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14470791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onebatch2batch/pseuds/onebatch2batch
Summary: Karen gets placed in a safe house that just so happens to be Frank's apartment. Feelings ensue.





	everything and beyond

**Author's Note:**

> I found this in my drafts folder completely finished and its kind of similar to other things I've written--but different enough I'd feel bad deleting it lol. Hope you enjoy! Title from Beyond - Leon Bridges

Putting Karen Page in a safe house gives her a lot of time to think. Too much time, in fact. And when she’s surrounded by Frank’s smell and Frank’s clothes and Frank’s guns, _naturally_ she thinks of Frank.

The first morning she wakes in the safe house (aka his apartment, hidden in the depths of Hell’s Kitchen) she has plenty to do. The night before she had been so exhausted from what happened, it was hard to do anything other than kick off her shoes and climb into bed. It’s her first time in his apartment, and while he’s gone off with Matt chasing a lead, Karen wanders around to explore.

The evening before she had walked home from work and had promptly been jumped a block from her office. Two men cornered her and managed to get in a couple punches before she could run off and hide in an alley, breathing hard through sore lungs. It took all of fifteen minutes for Frank to appear at her side after her phone call, and he guided her back to his place, face twisted with anger and worry.

She wasn’t sure what pushed her to call Frank over Matt or Foggy, or even the police, but as soon as she saw him she was glad she did. Frank held one of her hands in his own, the other on the small of her back. He brought her to his apartment, even while she could feel the tension in him telling him to go out and _punish_. Karen told him what she could about the men who attacked her, and then he gently pushed her into his bed and closed the door to let her sleep.

Then she woke up this morning and he’d been gone, but a note on the counter told her he’d be back after lunch and to help herself to the fridge.

Karen’s got a fresh cup of coffee in her hands as she wanders around his apartment, perusing his bookshelf, peeking into his broom closet, opening up the pantry. The journalist in her wants to comb through every inch of his apartment, and it’s another two hours until she’s bored enough to do so. Her phone is dead and she’s wired from drinking an entire pot of coffee so she steps back into his bedroom with curious eyes.

The bed is rumpled where she’d slept. She sits on the edge and picks up the pillow, pressing it to her nose. She can smell a hint of her own shampoo, but underneath that is the deeper, darker smell of Frank. His aftershave, or whatever it is, makes her stomach flip and she sets the pillow down before she can get lost in it. On the nightstand, there’s a small picture of Maria and the kids which looks like its been folded and unfolded more time than she can count. The edges are frayed and Karen looks at it without touching, feeling the quiet of the room like a church.

Other than that, the room is bare. There are no other pictures, no personal affects; nothing that would show anyone is even living here. She stands and opens the closet, glances over the rows and rows of black clothing, the bulletproof vest hanging at the very end. There’s a duffle bag on top of the closet shelf, and an experimental poke tells her that it’s filled with guns and ammo. She drops her gaze and sees a pair of boots at the bottom of the closet, well worn and covered in mud.

She turns and sweeps her eyes over the barren room, then blinks when she notices a folder poking out from under the mattress. When she pulls it out, her breath is snatched from her lungs. It’s a folder filled with her articles, little cut outs that come spilling out as soon as she opens it. They go back as far as her first article from the Bulletin, and she notices little asterisks next to names or places in the articles, although she’s not sure what that means. Karen rubs her sore ribs and stares down at the folder, both in awe and baffled by her find.

After some time she shoves it back under the mattress and decides it’s one more thing to add to her growing list of unspoken things between them. Just something else that they need to discuss, once life slows down a little.

When she walks back into the living room, she comes to the conclusion that there’s nothing else for her to do. The apartment is quiet, the neighbors are quiet, and Frank hasn’t returned. The thought of sitting down to try and read one of his many books doesn’t sound appealing, so she decides a shower is next on her to do list.

The bathroom is small, much like hers at home. But where her face wash is on the counter, he has a bar of soap. Where her de-tangling brush sits, there’s a comb. There’s two bottles in the shower, rather than her dozens of miscellaneous products: a 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner duo, and some body wash that smells fairly neutral. It’s obvious that he cares little about anything other than the basics; she can’t even remember seeing any cologne in the apartment. Karen finds a fresh towel under the sink and steps out of her clothes, eyeing her ribs with a critical eye. She’s been moving gingerly all morning, but that does nothing for the bruises blooming over her skin, dark blues and purples that are stark against her skin. She sighs and runs a hand through her hair, thinking about who could be targeting her.

She’s been targeted before. Mob bosses that don’t like what she’s writing about them, small time gangsters trying to get on the front page, dog fighting rings pissed they’ve been busted. Usually she can keep a couple steps ahead and avoid being physically attacked, but this time was different. They’d tracked her, knew which way she took home, knew when she’d be leaving and when the best time to strike was. It wasn’t deadly intent, just enough to scare her off, and she ponders the stories she’s been working while showering. She uses his shampoo and body wash and she’s disappointed when it doesn’t smell exactly like him. By the time she steps out and wraps the towel around herself, there’s movement in the other room.

She stands there for a moment listening, hears the cupboard opening and the sound of Frank’s heavy boots on the tile. The mirror is fogged and she swipes a hand across it, wiping at the makeup smudged under her eyes with a sigh. There’s a knock on the door a moment later.

“I brought you some clothes,” she hears from the other side of the door, and when she opens it Frank stares past her shoulder respectfully. He’s holding out a bag from her place, and he clears his throat. “Had Jess pack it. Didn’t want to, uh...”

Karen smiles and takes it gratefully, pulling her towel tighter around herself. “Thanks. You told Jessica?”

“Course. She and Red are still lookin’.” He glances down to meet her eyes then coughs and turns away. “Brought lunch, too. When you’re ready.”

Karen changes quickly and meets him in the kitchen just as he’s spooning Chinese onto a couple plates. She rubs the towel over her wet hair and takes a seat at the counter, watching him. “Hey, so thanks for coming. Last night, you know. I didn’t get a chance to say it."

Frank fixes her with an amused stare. “You think I need a thank you?”

She huffs. “Well, no. But—thank you.”

He dips his head, leaning on the counter opposite her. He’s long since grown out his beard, and his hair has grown out slightly. Not as much as before, certainly, but enough to give him a solid cover. They eat quietly while she surveys him, the familiarity of the situation strange to her. They’ve been spending more time together since he adopted his new life as Pete Castiglione, but never forced like this. She feels like she’s imposing, even if he’s insisted she’s not. “So what did you find?” she asks finally when she’s starting to feel the tension climbing in her shoulders.

Frank frowns, pushing his food around. “Nothin’ much. Lieberman’s lookin’ into the security cameras but the images are hard to see. Dark ‘n shit.”

“I really think they were just trying to scare me,” she says, poking at her own food. “I don’t think they’ll come around again.”

Frank shrugs, turning back to look at her. “Maybe. Don’t want to risk it. You and those damn articles.”

Karen pauses, and then shoots him a sly smile. “Damn articles, huh? You seem to be a big fan of them.”

The silence that follows is heavy. Karen knows when Frank is treading lightly by the way his expression smooths over and the way his entire body stills, like he’s putting all of his energy into focusing on his next few words. “What d’you mean?”

“I just didn’t realize you were such an admirer,” Karen says flippantly, pushing her plate away. Frank’s eyes follow her movements, and then snap up to hers in realization.

“The folder.”

“Mhmm.” Karen grins. “The folder.” 

Frank chuckles, soft and low, leaning his hip against the counter. “Were you snoopin’ through my stuff, ma’am?”

“Not much to snoop through.” Karen raises her brows, but she’s laughing. He quirks a smile, watching her. It’s nice, this thing between them, even if they haven’t quite talked about it. He’s standing two feet away in his comfortable looking sweater and his homey beard and she thinks that maybe in another life, they could have met through a friend, or at the grocery store. They could have fallen in love without the imminent threat of death, or attacks on the way home, or duffel bags of ammunition.

But here they are, brought together by blood and death and darkness. And here she is, laughing too hard for her sore ribs, and wincing as the pain blooms over her skin. Frank frowns and comes around the counter, grasping at her shirt. He pauses for permission then pulls it up to examine the bruises critically. She watches the worry carve into his brow, watches as his fingers dance over her skin carefully. The pads of his fingers are rough from years of holding guns and knives, from punching and dragging and bruising—but he’s gentle with her. So gentle it makes her heart ache.

“You’re okay,” he deduces. “Just bruisin’.” He steps away and she keeps her hands in her lap, even though they cry out to grab his arm, hold him close.

His phone rings as he’s placing some Ibuprofen in her palm, and he takes one look at the caller ID before disappearing into the bedroom. Karen watches him go and feels a particular twist in her gut at the way his broad shoulders briefly frame the doorway before disappearing. Karen sighs and drops her face into her hands.

_Oh. I’m in trouble._

 

—

 

Karen stays two more agonizingly long days at Frank’s before they find the guys who came after her. Some low level dope dealers pissed about one of her articles had tried to scare her off, and found themselves beat to hell at Brett Mahoney’s feet for their troubles. (Matt and Jess’ work, she guesses.) Frank sends her a text as soon as it’s done.

_You’re safe. Mahoney’s got em._

Karen gathers her things and leaves before Frank returns. She makes sure the door is locked, takes her things and returns to her cold apartment, telling herself she needs some distance to get her head straight. She makes herself a drink and sits on her couch and tries to organize everything in her head.

On the one hand, she loves Frank. She’s known it for a while, even if it’s hard to admit to herself. On the other hand, this man very recently (and tragically) lost his family, and she has no right to expect anything more than what he is willing to give. It’s been months of dancing around one another and nothing has changed—so does that mean this _is_ as much as he can give?

Not that she should complain. Being friends with Frank is better than being friends with most people—he may be The Punisher, but he’s also Frank Castle, who meets her in diners and walks her home from work and makes sure she’s eating when she’s working hard on a story. Frank who tells her jokes to cheer her up when she has a bad day at work, and fixes her radiator when it stops working. He’s one of the best people she knows, and she should be glad that she can even be called his friend. That should be enough.

But it’s not.

Karen sighs and drops her head against the couch. She’s acting like a lovesick teen, and it’s a little ridiculous, honestly. She just needs to get over this.

That’s what she’s telling herself when there’s a hard knock on her door. She sets her glass down and goes to look through the peephole.

“Karen?” Frank calls before she can, and she slaps a smile on her face before throwing open the door.

“Hey. Missed me already?” She asks, joking.

“Yes,” Frank responds without hesitation. “Why’d you leave?”

Karen stares at him, baffled. “I...uh, what?”

Frank shrugs, suddenly awkward and bashful. He rocks back on his heels. “I uh...didn’t want you to go.” He pauses, then sighs and gestures. “Can I come in?”

Karen moves aside wordlessly, watching him step past her into the living room. He looks at home there, taking up space in her apartment, looking at her with heavy, nervous eyes. Karen sits on the couch and pats the seat next to her. “What’s going on?” 

Frank sits and takes her hand, gently. “I got no right sayin’ this to you,” he starts, “but...I uh, I haven’t let myself be happy in a long time.” He stops and lets his gaze drift around the room like he’s searching for the words to go on. “And I woke up yesterday and realized that I was, yeah? Happy, I mean. You uh, you were still asleep. And I was just thinkin’ about you. And us. And Maria an’ the kids. Sometimes it all gets jumbled up in my head, y’know, but there’s always you. And sometimes I feel guilty ‘bout tryin’ to move on, but...” He trails off, snaps his mouth shut. He takes his hands away and runs them through his hair with an aggravated sigh. “I don’t know how to say this. I feel like a fuckin’ teenager.”

Karen’s forced smile is gone; she can feel her grin pulling at her lips at the familiar sentiment. She puts a hand on his cheek and he looks at her warily, but his eyes are hopeful. “I left because if I didn’t…well, I didn’t want to pressure you. I was totally fine with just being friends, Frank.”

He leans into her touch, gaze locked. “And now?”

Words can’t express what she feels with him here, with his hand settling on her hip, with the way he’s looking at her. It reminds her so much of that moment in the elevator, when she was so certain he would close the gap and kiss her. She remembers the hot stab of misery and disappointment she felt when he didn’t, and knows she can’t bear that again. She leans forward and presses a careful kiss to his mouth, feels him shift under her lips to reciprocate. It’s sweet and tender and exactly Frank.

When she pulls away the intensity in his gaze nearly bowls her over. She brushes a hand through his hair, lets it rest at the base of his neck. “I think we’re way past friends,” she tells him honestly.

Frank ducks his head and smiles, and Karen thinks she’s never seen something so wonderful. He takes her free hand in his, kisses her knuckles.

“Way past friends it is,” he murmurs, and then leans in to kiss her again.


End file.
